


✞ The Infallibility of Grace

by LuxuriantSongstress



Series: ✞ The Infallibility of Grace [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fallen Castiel, Gen, Human Castiel, Joint Fic, M/M, Season/Series 09, Slash, Slow Burn, angel grace
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 16:48:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1148456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuxuriantSongstress/pseuds/LuxuriantSongstress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of Metatron’s betrayal, Dean, Cas and Sam set off to restore Cas’ grace. But Dean soon learns that grace is not without choice. Meanwhile, with Linda Tran’s soul hanging in the balance, Kevin, Charlie and Crowley begin their own journey. What happens when the fate of Heaven rests on the shoulders of a faithless man, and the fate of Hell rests on the shoulders of a fallen King? [Slow-burn Destiel]</p>
            </blockquote>





	✞ The Infallibility of Grace

**✞ The Infallibility of Grace - Chapter 1: Grace Under Pressure**

“By ‘guts’ I mean, grace under pressure.” - Ernest Hemingway

“And when you die, and your soul comes to Heaven, find me. Tell me your story. Now go.”

Castiel falls.

Just an insignificant speck against the vast expanse of Heaven’s collective memories and time. Like a tether pulled taunt, he is dragged down. He flails and screams, wails against the cage of flesh he’s trapped within, but still he falls. He begs for his wings to unfurl and carry him back, but they are gone, torn out by Metatron while he leered and said it was ‘a good thing’.

He falls past the boundary between Heaven and the void between planes, into the dark where even the holy, resplendent light of Paradise cannot reach him. He is plunged into the black, still crying out for his Father. Because without his wings, there is nothing to stop the freefall.

And Castiel knows, he is lost. Cast out from Heaven, cut off from God, he is a shadow of his former glory. A wavelength of celestial intent no more. Grace stolen, wings gone, he is bereft with the loss of it. The loss of home, of family, of purpose and power.

Desperately, he reaches out, reaches for that lost part of himself that makes him who he is. But there is nothing. No grace, no connection, no capacity for the divine. He is little more than the collection of the atoms that bind him.

And then, Castiel knows pain.

As he breaks through the void and slams into Earth’s heated atmosphere, there is nothing _but_ pain. And he is helpless against it. It’s a cruel, heartless thing, this searing, tearing, blinding pain that has no end. Even with the knowledge of every language in history, Castiel does not possess the language to express this pain beyond the mangled, frantic screaming that tears at the heart of him.

He falls past stars and mountains, past prayers and thoughts he’ll never know, past eons and ages he will only begin to graze with the limited time he has now.

Time, what was once just another dimension he roamed freely, will now be his undoing.

\--

“Castiel!” Dean looked up, as if doing so could make his pleas reach where his voice could not. “Where the hell are you?” In the middle of this shitstorm, the last thing Dean needed was for Cas to go MIA again. Dean couldn’t even keep track of how many times Cas had gone off on his own because he felt like he _owed_ it to someone. At this point though, he didn’t care. Right now, he had bigger issues. And all of them were 6’4” and struggling to breathe.

He held Sam upright and tried desperately to think of something, anything that could help. If completing the trials would’ve killed him, then what would _stopping_ the trials do?

Sam gasped again, clawing at his chest, and Dean was torn between railing on Cas and punching something. Neither of which would do any good at this point. But this was beyond him, his hunter skills and knowledge. Demon tablets, the word of God, the trials - he didn’t have a clue what was wrong, let alone what was happening to Sam or how to stop it. They needed help. Sam needed a goddamn angel...

In the midst of this frustrated thought Dean caught sight of the first meteor. It was faint at first. Just a subtle glow from behind a cloud. It could have been a plane, or a spotlight, but the instant Dean saw it, he knew what it was.

“No, Cas.”

He watched as more lights began to appear in the sky, bright and blazing. They were small at first, distant. Some fell faster than others, and it wasn’t until the one that was right over them got close enough that Dean felt the panic kick in.

He could see it now: the unmistakable outline of a man with wings, caught in a droplet of fire, falling faster than seemed possible. In only a few seconds, what had started off as a speck of light in the sky - nothing more than a star - had become a falling body.

When he was only a few hundred feet from the ground, his still-flaming wings tore off. But he continued to fall, maybe even faster now without the drag of the wings to slow him down. His body slammed into the nearby lake with enough force to shake the ground and startle Sam into looking up for the first time.

“What’s happening?” Sam grimaced.

“Angels,” Dean answered, unable to look away, “they’re falling.”

He watched as the burning wings of the one that hit near them continued to drift down. Unhindered by a body, they almost floated. Dean could just make out the charred feathers turning to ash, leaving a trail of black smoke against the horizon.

“Cas?” Sam managed to wheeze, one hand still twisted in his shirt over his chest.

“I don’t know,” Dean admitted. He could be falling right now. Just another fireball, orange and crimson against the black and blue star-strewn sky, falling towards the earth, with nothing but the unyielding ground waiting for him. His wings could be a smoldering pile of ashes in Australia, or floating in the Atlantic. And he would fucking deserve it.

Between Sam trying to breathe and crying out in pain, he had no time to spare on Cas. He’d have to deal with that, with all _this_ , later. Right now, his first priority, his _only_ priority, was Sam. Getting Sam to a hospital.

He managed to get Sam into the backseat of the Impala without too much trouble. But now that Sam was loaded up, he was torn. What should he do about Crowley? He couldn’t just leave him here. He knew not closing the gates would have consequences, but this didn’t need to be one of them. He could just gank him. But then again, he did have his usefulness. Who knew how this thing with Sammy was going to turn out - having the King of Hell in a devil’s trap might come in handy pretty soon.

His mind made up, Dean ran back into the church and heaved Crowley over his shoulder.

“Watch the hands, squirrel,” Crowley protested. But as soon as he was out the door of the church, he twisted to look at the sky. "What have you and the moose done _now_?” But Dean just ignored him. “What’s happening?" he demanded.

"It's the Fourth of July," Dean grunted as he dropped Crowley into the Impala’s trunk.

"Oi!"

Dean slammed the trunk and locked it. "Relax. You're alive, at least. Wanna change that?" He waited a few seconds before Crowley stopped pouting and gave him a mournful 'no' in response. "Good. Then quit complaining.”

\--

Sam was standing in a cabin. He could smell the pine trees just outside the red-checkered curtains, and his eyes could just make out a fire crackling in the hearth across the room.

He had no idea how he got here, or even where _here_ was. He tried to think back, tried to muddle through his jumbled thoughts and remember where he’d just come from. He remembered pain.

Lungs closing. Arms aching. Chest heaving. Ears ringing. The sky burning.

“Jesus,” Sam grunted as the images flashed in his mind. The trials. Crowley. Dean. The angels.

“Sorry to disappoint,” a deep, toneless response came from one of the leather chairs next to the fire. “Hello, Sam.”

The familiar voice and sudden sound of his name drew Sam’s eyes over to the source.

Death looked up at him from the table between the chairs, where a chess game was set up.

“Death?” Sam asked, inching around the second chair. He swallowed thickly, and suddenly the memory of the trials seemed far more palpable, seemed to solidify in the wake of Death’s cold regard. “Oh god, am I dead?”

“Oh, no. Not yet. Not today, I’m afraid.” Death gestured to the empty seat across from him. “Please, Sam. I think it’s time you and I had a chat, don’t you?”

Sam hesitated before taking his seat across from Death. “‘Not today,’” he repeated slowly, “what does that mean?”

“It means,” Death drawled, “not today.”

“Okay?” He raised his eyebrows in question, but didn’t press the issue. ‘Not today’ was still a better answer than ‘yes’. Sam looked down at the chess set and had to suppress a laugh. “A chess game, with Death? Really?”

“What can I say,” Death shrugged. “I’m a fan of the classics. Besides, I thought this was an activity you and I could enjoy together.” The corners of Death’s lips quirked up, almost imperceivable.

“Wait, is that why you always eat with Dean, because that’s what _he_ likes?”

“Astute,” Death sneered. “I see now why they call you the smart one. Will you play?”

“Depends,” Sam countered. “Does my soul hang in the balance?”

“Oh, nothing as obvious as that,” Death scolded. “Though, I do admit to having some ulterior motives. Shall we begin?”

Sam took a second to really look at the fearsome and powerful being that sat across from him. His wiry frame, gaunt face, prominent nose, and sallow skin put Sam on edge. There was something about the way he spoke and moved that made him seem unreal. It was like his every word, every action was calculated thousands of years in advance. And they were all executed with purpose and plan. Whatever Sam might be playing for, would it be worth it to lose?

Because Sam was sure, one hundred percent sure, he would lose.

Death smiled. “A wise decision.” He waved a hand and the chessboard disappeared.

“How did you know what I was thinking?”

“We’re inside your mind, Sam. You are quite ill at the moment. It allows me a certain… freedom,” he chose his words carefully, “to visit you in this setting.”

“How do I know you’re real?” Sam asked, leaning back in his chair.

“I suppose you’re just going to have to trust me.”

“Okay,” Sam agreed.

“Okay? Just like that?” Death questioned, a slight lilt to voice as his eyes swept over Sam.

“Yeah. Well, when the last remaining horseman of the apocalypse, a being as old as God and the universe itself says he wants to ‘have a chat’, call me crazy - but I listen. Even if you are a figment of my imagination, I bet you still have something important to say.”

“I like you, Sam. You’re reasonable. Maybe not the best decision-maker at times, but such can be said of all mortals. You don’t have the experience of _time_.” Death moved his eyes from the fire where he’d been watching the flames lick at the logs to Sam. “You are all such young, flawed creatures.”

Not knowing how else to respond, Sam shrugged.

“In any case, I wanted to speak with you about this dichotomy you seem to be trapped in.”

“What dichotomy would that be?” Sam asked, sitting up a little straighter.

“Your conflicting wish to live and die, of course,” Death admonished.

“I don’t want to die,” Sam argued, but Death was already holding up his hand and whatever rebuttal Sam would have made faded.

“As I am in your head, and you are at Death’s door, literally, let us not stand on ceremony. I know the truth that lives in your soul, Sam Winchester. You wish for an escape from this life. Ever since you were a boy, you’ve longed to be anything _except_ a hunter. You ran away to college, you sacrificed yourself to Lucifer, and only last year you lost yourself in Texas, of all places. Your wish for death is only the exaggerated manifestation of this desire.” Death took a sip from a teacup he conjured from thin air.

Sam was still for a moment. “I never looked at it like that,” he said quietly.

“And these trials, just the latest in your struggle. You either wished to live long enough to have a ‘normal life’ or die in the process.” Death set his tea down and pinned Sam with a deep, probing gaze. “What I need, Sam, is for you to decide which it will be. You can either live, and eventually find the happiness you seek, or die and relive the echoes of a past life, alone, forever.”

Sam ran his hands through his hair and sighed. “Well, when you put it like that…”

“I need to make this quite clear, Sam. _You_ need to choose. No one else can do it for you, no matter how much they may want to." Sam didn't need a crystal ball to know he was referring to Dean. "You cannot exist in this state of limbo much longer. There is a time coming, very soon now, where I will be coming to reap you, and your mind needs to be made up before that time.”

“What happens if I haven’t decided?” Sam asked, a lump in his throat because he knew, no matter what, he wasn’t going to like the answer.

“I will wipe your soul from existence. Poof,” Death blew on his fingers, letting his hand fall away. “No Heaven, no Hell, no Purgatory. You will simply disappear.”

A chill of sheer terror ran down Sam’s spine.

“Do you understand?” Death asked conversationally, the lines of his face softening, as if he hadn’t just threatened Sam’s eternal soul.

Sam nodded, obediently. “Yes.”

“Good.” Death leaned back in his chair and smiled softly, the picture of ease. Apparently the matter was settled, and they were back to being friends. “There is one last thing I wanted to mention, while I have you.”

“Is it about the angels?”

“Very good,” Death complimented. But unlike last time, this seemed to be a genuine sentiment. “Yes, it’s about the angels. As long as they are cast out of Heaven, my job will become quite difficult. More deaths, less miracles, you understand. The more they clash with demons, reapers, or whatever else,” Death waved his hand dismissively, “demigods, etcetera, etcetera, the more work there is for me.”

“But Heaven’s closed,” Sam interjected.

“Think of the doors to Heaven, Hell and Purgatory as a two way street. Souls travel in. Demons, angels, monsters travel _out_. You can never close the road. That is the natural order of things. They live, they die, they move on. You can only restrict the flow of traffic, make it one-way.” Death raised his eyebrows at Sam, like he was trying to impress something vital to him.

There was a slight rumble to the cabin. The floor shook, the fire flickered, and Death regarded Sam with a quiet intensity that was unnerving. Sam could hear something now. Someone calling out to him.

They called him ‘Sammy.’

“I’m waking up now,” Sam stood and yelled over the roaring and shaking.

“Remember what I said, Sam. There isn’t much time now.”

Death erupted into a bright, white light. There was beeping and the murmurs of people talking. The light moved from one eye to the other, fading back to the view of cheap, fluorescent lights in ceiling tiles.

“Pupils are responsive,” a man’s voice said from somewhere above him.

“Sam? Sammy? You with me?” Dean’s frantic voice cut through the other noises and lights. “Hang in there, little brother.”

Sam closed his eyes. “Not today,” he managed to say before the darkness blotted out all light and sound.

\--

“Sam!” Dean yelled over the sound of one of the hospital staff telling him to give them some room.

‘Not today.’ That’s what he’d said. What the fuck did that mean? “What’s happening to him?” Dean asked one of the nurses but she barely even glanced at him. "Hey, talk to me! He said something! What's that mean?"

“He’s responding,” a male nurse finally answered. "Now please, give us some room."

"Is he gonna be okay?" Dean demanded and grabbed his arm to get his attention but the nurse jerked away, already going back to ignoring him.

“Get him out of here!” One of the doctors shouted over his shoulder at Dean.

The next thing he knew, Dean was being dragged, bodily, from the small intermediary room. He didn’t even know how many people it took to pull him away, but judging by how many hands were on him, it was at least three. But Dean didn’t really care if it took a whole army. They’d had Sam for an hour already, and they hadn’t told him jackshit about what was happening to him. Then, as soon as he’d come to, they kicked him out.

“We need you to stay here,” a young nurse said. She put her face right in front of Dean; her hand grabbed his chin to make sure he was looking at her. She waited until he made eye contact before continuing. “I’ll tell you as soon as we know anything.” She had a slender, feminine face framed in tendrils of blonde hair that’d come loose from her bun. She reminded him of Jo, a little. Around the eyes and nose.

Dean stopped struggling and nodded. “Fine,” he grumbled and turned away, finally. Her _knowing_ look was uncomfortable.

The other hands on him slid away, leaving him to sit in a blue plastic chair in some hallway. The lit-up sign above him read ‘ICU’.

Sitting there helpless, useless, was more than he could bear. How could this be happening, after everything they’d been through already? It felt like Lucifer’s cage all over again. Cas had gotten him there just in time to be too late. And now, now that Sammy had agreed to live, to fight, to try - he was dying.

Dean growled and rubbed his palms down his face. They still smelled like mud, and there was blood on his cuffs. Sam’s blood. He stood up, picked a hall, and started walking. He couldn’t just sit there, waiting to hear about Sam. _That’s not what he did_. When something was wrong, he fixed it. When Sam was hurt, he helped him. When the sky was burning… what did he do then? When their angel didn’t answer, what else was there left to do?

Glancing up, Dean saw the sign for ‘Chapel’ and groaned. “Couldn’t hurt,” he gave in and opened the door to the small sanctuary.

There were only a few pews, but Dean picked the last row anyway. Thankfully, the place was empty. He didn’t like the idea having an audience for what he was about to do.

Dean kneeled, clasped his hands, and bowed his head. “Cas, you there?” Dean reached out with his thoughts, with whatever it was inside him that made his prayers vibrate at just the right frequency to carry on the Cas dial of angel radio. He reached out, beyond himself, into the space between them. Dean imagined it like air, thick with smoke. If he just called loud enough, prayed hard enough, Cas might be able to hear him. “Sammy's hurt - he's hurt pretty bad. And I know that you think that I’m pissed at you. But I don't care that the angels fell. So whatever you did, or didn't do, we'll work it out.”

But all Dean could feel was the absence of _something_ that used to be there. Usually when he prayed, he pictured a small, blue light in a sea of black. A light that flickered when he called Cas’ name. He didn’t actually see it, it was just how it _felt_ when he prayed. Even for all those months when he thought Cas was dead, that light had always been there. Even in Purgatory, it was distant and weak, but the light never went out. But now, there was just nothing. Just endless black, endless darkness.

It left Dean feeling hollow, and more alone than he’d felt in years. “Please man, I need you here.”

The truth of it, the ache Dean felt whenever he admitted he _needed_ Cas was frustrating. He hated feeling weak, or vulnerable. And there was nothing more desperate, more exposed to Dean than when he confessed that he needed _anyone_.

Minutes rolled by, and there was nothing. No spark, no light, no connection. There was only the empty, ringing void where his profound bond used to be. Maybe Cas was beyond hearing him this time.

Fucking Cas and his _good intentions_. When had that ever worked out for them? Someone was always winding up dead or trapped or worse. Why couldn’t Cas just listen to him, for once? Even when Dean _begged_ him not to, even when he asked him, as family, to _trust_ him. Even when the world was on the line, he still assumed he knew better. Even when Dean poured every ounce of sincerity he could manage into a plea that felt like he was admitting to so much more than just ‘I know better,’ Cas still didn’t listen.

And look where it got them this time. Sam in the hospital, falling angels, God knew what else. Just another calamity that should never have happened, if Cas would have just trusted him. Dean hated this feeling, this caustic mix of shame, fear, regret, anger, concern, and betrayal. He knew it well, the way this particular brand of helplessness felt, settled in his gut, carefully folded around the cavity of his chest. It was God-stiel all over again. It was Sam’s wall, it was Purgatory and Naomi, it was Samandriel/Alfie, it was Cas fucking up.

Unable to kneel anymore, Dean left the chapel and its empty pews and empty Heaven. He couldn’t just stand there, waiting for news. And he couldn’t pray anymore. Not when he knew no one was listening. It was worse than being ignored. The black scared the shit out of him. He didn’t even know what it meant. He couldn’t afford to think about that now, what no light in the dark meant for Cas, for him, for Sam.

He followed the exit signs back through the ER waiting room and back out into the night. The sky was still dotted with lights in the distance, and one or two crisscrossing trails of fire. At the sight of them, something snapped in Dean. He went from worried to fucking pissed in one second flat. He could feel blind, white-hot rage leaking from his bones.

Fuck Cas. He was a self-righteous dick who only ever thought about himself. Fuck him for running off, again. For leaving Sam dying, again. For being dead.

As soon as Dean thought it, he regretted it. But that’s what had been plaguing him since he first tried praying outside the chapel. It was the only explanation for why that spark of light had vanished from his prayers. The only way Cas could be gone was if he was dead. And even though he didn’t want to think about this now, as soon as it came to him, Dean knew it was true. It was the only explanation.

“Fuck you!” Dean shouted at the sky, walking through a mostly empty parking lot, away from the lights of the buildings. “Fuck you for letting this happen!” He wasn’t even sure who he was yelling at. Was it Cas, was it Naomi, Metatron, God? “You sons of bitches! Cowardly, asshat, shitstain fucking angels. I hope you fucking BURN! I hope it fucking _hurts_.”

He didn’t even realize he was crying until he felt his breath hitch. “We don’t need you.” He swiped at his cheeks, trying to scrub the tears away with his muddy, blood-soaked sleeve. “We were better off before you winged-douchebags ever showed up. I hope the fall kills all of you, you fucking deserve it!” Dean sank to his knees in the empty lot he found himself in. Cool mud damped the knees of his jeans. “We don’t need you, any of you.”

But even he knew that was a lie. “What am I gonna do?”

\--

Castiel woke just a few yards from a clearing in the woods. The night sky was alight with the fires of his burning family. He felt ill. It was a sickness borne of regret and sorrow that twisted at his core. Unable to turn away, he watched with a terrible kind of fascination as one by one, the lights flickered out. For those who already claimed vessels, their bodies slammed into the earth at unthinkable speeds, leaving the smoldering visages of their wings to break apart as they drifted down.

Those who did not yet possess human vessels were left to circle, unseen, in the skies above. Trapped between this plane and the next. Nothing but ether in the atmosphere, wisps of grace against the inky black of the starry skies. He could hear them crying out, in pain. Lost, confused, injured from their fall. Some wept, some wailed, some raged against him. His name a curse to those who were loyal to Naomi, those who knew he was culpable in this tragedy.

And this was so much worse than what he could have imagined. The pain of watching his family fall, watching them burn. The shame of knowing it was by his hands. He allowed himself to be tricked. He let them down, all of them. Dean and Sam and all those who he wished to protect. Brother and sisters he sought nothing but redemption from. He’d doomed them to this fate, in his vanity and avarice.

Castiel stood, rooted to the earth, until all the lights went out. Until he was left with the stark black skies, littered with stars older than himself.

Eventually, as the cold wind began to bite at his ears and nose, Castiel forced himself to move. He didn’t know where he’d landed, but the air felt familiar. These evergreens and pines were almost certainly ‘old growth’ found in the Rockies. Which meant that Kansas and the Men of Letters’ bunker was to the East.

There was a small lake in the center of the clearing. Having no other direction, he headed towards it. If nothing else, he could take sustenance from its waters. Without his grace, he was human now, and he knew - if somewhat abstractly - that meant he would require food, water and rest. He would feel pain, and be susceptible to illness and the elements.

It also meant that one day, he would die.

The thought was so jarring, so upsetting Castiel felt his knees tremble. He would not die the way he had before, in battle. It would not be quick and painless, a soldier’s death. He would grow old, and wither. He would fray and lose his faculties. It was a pitiless fate, devoid of dignity.

Castiel tried to push the thought away. Now was not the time for petulant sulking. He had to keep moving. Eventually, he would encounter a roadway, and humans. He would ask for aid, and a cellular telephone so he could contact Dean.

He had not yet determined what he would say, how he would seek penance for not heeding Dean’s warnings when he had the chance. This was the second time Castiel was convinced he knew better, only to realize what a farce that was, how wrong he was, how grotesque the consequences of his actions were.

At least he was confident that he’d gotten Dean back to Sam in time. The last thing he knew, touched, _felt_ with his grace before Metatron cut it out of him was Dean’s silent ‘thank you’ as Sam agreed to live. They were together, and Sam was saved. That was the only difference between now and when Castiel had gorged himself on the souls of Purgatory. At least Sam was safe.

Castiel drank some of the cold water. His hands grew numb from the chill before he continued on with his fists curled in the pockets of his trench coat. The clearing ended ahead, and he was plunged into almost complete darkness. He stumbled and tripped as he fumbled desperately from one shaft of moonlight to the next.

By the time he emerged into another clearing his palms were bruised and bloody from falling, his pants were dirty and knee scuffed. But the waning crescent moon smiled on dirt tracks cut into the clearing. If he just followed it, he would either come to the highway or a dwelling or business. Picking a direction at random, Castiel walked through the night.

\--

Dean balled his jacket into a pillow and stretched out on the back seat of the Impala. He was exhausted, but he couldn’t bring himself to sleep. They still wouldn’t let him see Sam in the ICU, and with nowhere else to go, Dean told the nurse that reminded him of Jo that he was going to get some air. He’d wound up at the car, and thought maybe he could get some sleep. But now that he was lying down, he realized how stupid that was. There was no way he was going to sleep now.

The last meteor-angel had disappeared over the horizon about fifteen minutes ago. They’d taken hours to fall and each time he considered the possibility that it was Cas, he felt sick. He knew he was lying to himself. Cas was dead. Dead dead. Dead, like even God wasn’t going to bring him back this time.

Dean grunted and shuffled around in the back seat until he could lie on his back with his legs bent, the jacket-pillow forgotten on the floor.

“Goddamnit, Cas,” Dean cursed. It wasn’t even really a prayer anymore. He couldn’t bring himself to pray again. “What’d you do, you stupid ass?”

Dean felt _something_ constrict in his chest. Something like fear, or grief. Because he knew this time was different. He’d always known when Cas was out there. Even on the run, or in hiding, or lost in amnesia. But now, he knew better. Cas wasn’t coming back this time, and that left Dean floundering.

_You’re still hoping Castiel will return to you._ Naomi’s voice broke through his thoughts. “Fuck you, Naomi!” Dean shouted at the roof of the Impala. 

“Now, now, Dean. She’s not all that bad, is she?” Crowley’s muffled voice startled Dean.

“Shit, Crowley! Don’t do that,” Dean spoke through the seat and took a deep breath.

“Sorry to interrupt your pining, squirrel. But you think you might LET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE anytime soon?” Crowley was in a terrible mood and Dean couldn’t bring himself to care.

“No,” Dean barked. Apparently being the King of Hell didn’t preclude Crowley from also being a pathetic drama queen.

But wait.

Dean sat up. Crowley was the King of Hell. And if the angels couldn’t help, and Cas was gone, that only left one other option. Dean quickly got out of the car and opened the trunk.

\--

The trunk sprang open, and Crowley could just make out the silhouette of Dean Winchester standing over him.

“What now?” Crowley didn’t even have the energy to try for a clever quip. He was just exhausted. “I’ll have you know I was enjoying a lovely cat nap before your brooding woke me.”

“Shut up.”

“Come to finish the job?” Crowley’s jaw set in a hard line as his entire body seized up.

“Not yet.”

At his answer, Crowley’s aching limbs relaxed. But there was something… off about the eldest Winchester. Crowley narrowed his eyes from the shadows of the trunk and _really_ looked at him. There was dirt on his face, and his jacket was caked in mud. There was blood on him too, on his hands and sleeves. But it was the tracks of clean skin down his cheeks that stood out. He’d tried to wipe them clean, but right at the corners of his eyes, Crowley could see where his freckled skin peeked through the grime that otherwise covered him. “What’s the matter, squirrel? Moose isn’t hurt, is he?” Crowley had meant it to be a snip, a petty barb intended to inflict pain. But the sentiment petered out halfway, leaving the question hanging heavy in the cool night air.

Dean raised an eyebrow and Crowley swore under his breath. “Just kill me and get it over with.”

“If I’d wanted to kill you, you’d be dead.” Dean shifted his weight from right to left foot as he looked down at Crowley.

“How bad is he?” Crowley asked.

“Bad,” Dean admitted.

“And the meteors?”

Dean hesitated, but eventually answered, “Angels.”

At his word, there was a sickening twist in Crowley’s gut. It was so unexpected, he actually curled farther around himself. A physical reaction to what he was coming to understand was not actual pain from the beatings or the trials, but from some uncontrollable emotional response. Crowley felt damaged.

“Explains the tears,” he mumbled and rolled his shoulder farther under his weight, to alleviate some of the actual, physical pain in his side. But, no. That wasn’t right. The King of Hell didn’t ache. He didn’t feel pain or fear or pity. He was beyond that. Soulless, ruthless, clever. He was just drained. Moose and his fucking trials - Crowley just needed time to recover. If he could just rest for a while, get his strength back, everything would be back to normal in no time.

“I need to know what mojo you have.”

“Come again?” Crowley kept his tone light, but all he could feel was an overwhelming swell of anger. They were insolent children. The way they hunted and killed what they didn’t understand, whatever they deemed ‘unnatural’. They had no respect for what came before, for those that were older than legends and continents.

“You know, your mojo, juice, power - whatever you want to call it. How much do you have?” Dean asked again.

Crowley nearly growled. “Do I look like I have an abundance of ‘mojo’ at the moment, you miserable sod? This meatsuit is a wreck. I can’t even heal myself, let alone Samantha. Plus there’s the whole, you know, _evil_ thing that you lot just seem to ignore half the time,” Crowley huffed and wriggled in his chains. “Even if I had the mojo, what makes you think I’d be amenable to helping the two biggest pains in my ass? This whole mess is _your fault_!”

“So, that’s a no then?” And then, God help him, that pretty-boy tosser quirked his eyebrow.

“I hope your boyfriend’s a smoldering pile of ash!” Crowley roared and surged forward, ignoring the pain that spiked in his wrists as the skin tore against the metal shackles. There was only one second where Crowley could see Dean’s face before he slammed the trunk and left him in darkness again. But in that brief moment, Crowley felt like his old self, still giddy with the power to inflict pain. He might be weaker right now, but he was still smarter than they were. “Why don’t you ask your prophet for help!” Crowley called through the trunk and closed his eyes.

He just needed some rest. Then his arms wouldn’t hurt and his stomach wouldn’t do that flip-flop thing it seemed to be set on whenever he thought about the trials, the angels falling, or Abaddon.

\--

Well, that had been a tremendous waste of time. Dean rubbed the back of his neck and pulled out his cell phone. He walked a good twenty or so feet from the Impala and quickly called Kevin. But the line just rang and rang and rang.

“What?” Finally, Kevin’s voice answered.

“Kev--” Dean was cut off by a loud _beep_. “Shit,” Dean swore. “Kev, its Dean. Call me back when you get this. Something happened, we need help.” He hung up and grimaced. Nothing was going the way it should. Dean felt isolated and cut off; all their friends, family, anyone he might have relied on to help in this case was just… gone. He and Sammy were on their own. And that was exactly the problem: Dean didn’t have the first clue how to help Sam. He didn’t even know what was wrong, not really. This had been a terrible idea - the trials, the tablets, all of it. Dean longed for the easy times when all they had to worry about was hunting down a demon and finding their Dad.

Unlike now, when Sam was dying, Cas was dead, and the whole world was going to shit. The angels had fallen. The King of Hell was being an uncooperative ass, and their prophet was in the wind. Dean needed a win. He needed some good news, a break. Just something.

He’d never considered himself a faithful man. Even after Hell, and Cas, and faced with the irrefutable proof that there was a God. Even then, he could doubt that God was still around, or gave a shit. Even after Cas came back, without another explanation, Dean found it easier to be skeptical, jaded, suspicious. But as he stood in that nearly empty New York Hospital parking lot, out of time, out of options, there was almost nothing left he could do _but_ have faith.

He needed to believe Sammy would pull through. He’d stopped the trials. He’d gotten there in time. He’d sacrificed basically the entire world, for Sam. The doors of Hell were still open, because of Dean. He’d betrayed everything he’d spent his life working for.

Sam could have done it. They could have slammed the gates closed, saved hundreds, thousands, millions of people. Forever, for the rest of time. Dean could have saved whole generations worth of innocent people. But he didn’t. He would rather let the whole world burn to save Sam.

So, Dean had to believe Sam would pull through this. The trials couldn’t kill him. They just couldn’t. If he stopped believing it, even for a second, Dean wasn’t sure what it would do to him. He held his phone in one hand and his head in the other while his entire world dismantled around him. Without Sam, without Cas, with the trials abandoned, Dean felt like he was spinning out of control.

“Mr. Doherty?”

Dean didn’t even register the voice at first.

“Mr. Doherty, are you alright?” The blond nurse from before touched his arm, and Dean looked up. He’d forgotten what alias he’d given.

“I’m fine,” he said, straightening up.

“I wanted to give you an update on your brother,” she said, still gripping his upper arm.

“Is he…?” Dean asked, not even really sure what he was asking. Was he asking if Sam was okay, or was he asking if he wasn’t? Was he asking if his brother was dead?

“No,” she responded.

And Dean couldn’t understand which unasked question she was answering. “No?”

“I mean, no - he’s alright. The doctor thinks he’s past the worst of it. His temperature is down, his vitals are steady. He’s not awake yet, but we’re confident he’ll pull through. We’re still not sure what happened, why his system was shutting down, but his liver and kidney functions are returning. He’s breathing on his own now too. We’re getting ready to transfer him from ICU to a room. You’ll need to sign some paperwork for admission. Do you understand?” she asked when Dean failed to react to anything she’d said.

“Sam’s alive.”

She nodded.

“He’s not going to die.”

She shook her head.

“He’s going to be okay?” Dean asked, his heart was racing. He realized he was holding her shoulder, squeezing hard enough to make her wince. He withdrew his hand immediately and she nodded again.

“He’s going to be okay,” she repeated and Dean kissed her. Not full-on-the-mouth or anything. Just a sloppy smack of lips to cheek at the corner of her smile.

“Thank you,” he said as he pulled her into a quick hug. “Thank you.”

She didn’t seem upset about the kiss or hug, she just giggled and blushed under the halogen street lights of the parking lot. But Dean was already sprinting for the automatic doors of the ER.

\--

Even before Sam opened his eyes or heard voices, he could tell he was awake because of the pain. But it wasn’t the kind of pain from an injury. It wasn’t sharp or biting. It wasn’t an acute pain he could point to and say, “There, it hurts there.” No, this was a chronic kind of pain. It was pervasive, all-encompassing. There was a dull ache that was bone deep.

His mouth was dry and felt like there were cotton balls in his throat. “Water?” he croaked, his eyes still closed. He could hear the hum and whirl of machines now, the astringent smell of disinfectant strong enough to make his empty stomach heave.

“Sam? Sammy?” He heard Dean’s voice followed by the scrape of chair legs on linoleum. “Hey, hey! He’s awake!” Dean was calling to someone.

Sam struggled to open his eyes. But the lights were already too bright, even with his eyes closed. “Lights,” he groaned, and flung his arm over his face. He felt a pinch on his hand, but ignored it.

“Shit, Sammy. You ripped out your IV.” A second later the lights went out, and Sam, even from behind his closed eyes and arm, immediately felt better.

“Thanks,” he finally managed as he looked up at Dean. “You look like shit,” he informed him dryly, because he did. But mostly just so he could see Dean crack a smile, and get rid of those terrible forehead creases he got when he was fretting. He reminded Sam too much of their father when he did it.

“And I still look 50 times better than you.” Dean smirked and was soon joined by a squat male nurse in light blue scrubs.

“A hospital, really?” Sam asked as the man took note of the IV bag level, put the needle back in his hand and taped it down before putting a blood pressure cuff on him.

“Didn’t really give me much of a choice there, Sammy.” Dean smiled, but Sam felt hollow at his words. A wash of cold terror ran through him.

“What happened?” Sam asked, suddenly desperate to remember. But Dean shook his head slightly from behind the nurse.

Sam was forced to wait an excruciating half an hour while the nurse took his temperature, blood pressure, and whatever else he scribbled into Sam’s chart. He answered questions about allergies, and what day of the week it was. Dean mouthed ‘Sunday’ from the corner of the room for that one. Finally, after he was sure Sam wasn’t going to spontaneously have a complete internal organ failure, and knew his name and the president, he left.

As soon as he’d cleared the threshold, Sam turned to Dean. “Tell me.”

“What do you remember?” Dean hedged.

“The church, stopping the trials, and… and something…” Sam muddled, trying to remember what it was that he was forgetting.

“The angels?” Dean asked, his face crestfallen.

“Oh, God,” Sam breathed. It felt as though all the air in his lungs was sucked out at the memory of the sky burning. “They fell.”

Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell. He swiped the unlock screen before searching for something. “Here,” he said as he offered his phone to Sam.

It was a newscast.

“For the latest breaking news on the worldwide meteor shower, subscribe to--” Sam clicked the top button and the screen went black. He didn’t need to hear anymore than that.

“Worldwide meteor shower? Really?” He didn’t even try to keep the contempt from his voice. “But what does this mean? Cas?” Sam asked, not really sure what he was even asking. Did Cas fall too? Was he alive?

Dean’s face fell. It was just a second before he schooled his features into his familiar mask of calm indifference. But Sam had seen it. Dean looked stricken, wounded almost. But it was gone in a second, and he just shook his head and said, “I don’t know.” But Sam felt like Dean was speaking another language, buried beneath careful control that said _he’s gone_.

Immediately Sam started tugging at the IV tube in his arm and tried to sit up. “Woah, woah. Easy there, tiger.” Dean surged forward and laid a firm hand to Sam’s chest, pressing him down and back into the bed.

“Dean, we’ve got to find him. I can’t just lay here--”

“That’s exactly what you’re going to do.” Dean leaned into his hand, and Sam felt breathless from the pain of just the pressure of it on his chest.

“Dean,” Sam objected.

“Sam,” Dean shot back.

Sam stopped trying to sit up, and immediately the pressure lessened. He already felt winded, and a thick sweat broke out across his forehead. Dean sighed and rubbed his temples. “You nearly died,” Dean confessed and Sam felt a detached sort of acknowledgement.

“Okay.”

“Okay? You almost die, and you say ‘ _okay_ ’?” Dean snapped at him and Sam nodded.

Sam remembered the angels falling, and then darkness. But he also remembered the dreamy haze of the cabin where Death waited by the fire. He could still hear the mocking in his tone when he’d said he was ‘smarter’, and the warning when he’d told Sam he would be coming to reap him ‘very soon’. He felt an anxious thread of doubt weave through him at the memory. Had it been real? Dean said he’d almost died, and Death had said he was ‘at Death’s doorstep’. But it could have just been a hallucination, or dream, or Sam’s unconscious mind trying to tell him he needed to wake up. Either way, the fact that he’d almost died did not come as a surprise. “Yeah, okay. I almost died, but I didn’t. Now can we go?”

Something about hospitals unnerved him. Maybe it was the way he felt powerless, or trapped, or _observed_. Maybe it was the smell, or the germs, or death. Maybe it was the memory of his father’s lifeless body lying on a hospital floor or Dean in a bed slowly fading away. Whatever it was, it made Sam itch to get up. To tear his IVs out and make a run for it, paper gown and all.

But Dean was shaking his head. “No deal, Sam. You need to rest.” But before Sam could protest that he felt fine, Dean sighed and ran a hand through his hair in a gesture that made him look surprisingly young. “ _I_ need to rest.”

Sam tilted his head back, and even in the darkened room, he could see he was a mess. He was covered in mud, and there was blood checkered across his jacket. His eyes were bloodshot and his hands looked like they might be shaking. He looked pale and unsteady on his feet. Sam wondered how long he’d spent on his knees, praying to Cas tonight. And while he would rather have been literally _anywhere_ but here at the moment, he knew Dean needed some sleep. He didn’t think that haunted look in his eyes could be solved by sleep, but maybe the dark circles under his eyes and his sallow complexion could.

Sam knew there was only one sure way to erase that damaged look Dean had. They needed to get back to the bunker and find Cas. Wherever he fell, Sam was sure he would head to Kansas. And it might take a while, but Sam was sure Cas would get in contact with them when he could, however he could. If the angels were cut off from Heaven, they might not be able to teleport or heal like they used to, like when Cas rebelled and was cut off. But he was probably on his way right now, and they needed to be at the bunker when he got there.

“Fine,” Sam conceded. He checked the time on the wall clock. It was almost 3:15 AM. “I’ll give you four hours, but then we leave. Before these doctors start running more tests or asking questions we can’t answer.”

“I told them you were on drugs,” Dean choked back a laugh.

“What?” Sam asked, incredulous.

Dean just shrugged and smiled. It wasn’t like those other smiles he’d given him, sad and fake. This time the corners of his eyes crinkled and Sam had to suppress a chuckle. He was pretty sure laughing was going to hurt like a bitch. “What was I supposed to say? It kept them busy with running tests, and kinda explained why you were in a coma.”

“Four hours,” Sam held up four fingers to make his point. “Then we get the hell out of here and head back to the bunker. That’s where Cas’ll be headed, right?” Sam asked, and Dean shrugged. “Right?” Sam tried again, putting a little more force into his voice.

“Probably,” Dean admitted, but the way he said it, the hesitation in his voice was unsettling. It was like he’d already given up. Sam didn’t feel like pressing it at the moment. Dean needed to rest.

“Have you checked in with Kevin?” Sam asked, trying to coax more information out of Dean before he collapsed where he stood. He really did need to sleep.

“I tried calling, but I couldn’t get through.” And, if possible, Dean looked even more disappointed with himself. Like he’d done nothing but fail everyone today. Sadly, Sam knew, that’s probably exactly what he was thinking.

“It’s fine. We’ll try again on the road. Go get some shuteye in the family lounge, and I’ll see you in four hours.”

Dean nodded. “Yeah, okay.” He grabbed his jacket off the chair and paused at the door. “I’m glad you’re okay, Sammy.”

Then he was gone, just a shadow passing through the lights in the hall.

“Me too,” Sam told the darkened room and shut his eyes.

He’d been so close to giving up. So close to just letting it happen, to giving in, to losing that ‘unicorn’ dream, as Meg had put it. After his confession in the church, he’d lost all sense of his former self. All that was left was a driving, humming, insistent force that pushed him to finish, made him feel like if he _didn’t_ complete the trials, he would burn apart from the inside out. It was a compulsion; it was fate and destiny and he needed it. He needed to finish. He needed to save his brother and cleanse the world. He needed to close the gates, no matter what the cost.

The only thing in the entire universe, Sam was sure, the only thing that was capable of stopping it, stopping the trials and his swan dive into oblivion was Dean. And he’d turned around, and there he was. He’d asked Sam to stop. He promised him they’d find a way together, because they were stronger together.

And when he made the choice, when he agreed to live, to stop the trial, there was a fire that raged through him, seared his bones and branded his heart. It felt like going the wrong way. But once the light faded from his skin, it was over. He was himself again. He was back to Sam who wanted to live, who had dreams of a normal life, who still regretted leaving home and not marrying Jess.

Dean brought him back from the brink of ruin, pulled him across the charcoal of the trials and dragged him back to earth. And now, Sam had a feeling he was going to need to do the same for Dean.

Sam didn’t usually pray to Cas. He left that for Dean, and whatever their ‘profound bond’ meant. But he’d seen the way Dean’s face fell when he’d said Cas’ name. So Sam felt like he had to try.

“Cas,” Sam spoke to the dark, his eyes still closed. He carefully moved his left hand to his stomach and clasped it with his right. He was sure clasping his hands wasn’t a requirement of Cas hearing them, but it felt like the thing to do. “If you can hear me, please, just let us know you’re alive.” Sam tried one last time. He squeezed his eyes shut so hard, he saw trails of light behind his lids. “Please Castiel, we need you. Dean needs you.”

Sam wasn’t even really sure why he said the last part. It just felt like if there was anyway Cas was going to hear them, or respond, it was if he knew Dean needed him. Because even though Sam didn’t like to dwell on thoughts about his brother and Cas, he understood that there was something between the two of them that went beyond friendship. Maybe it was family, like Dean said. Though, he always felt like Dean looked at Cas differently than him, which, thank God. No way he wanted Dean giving him those long, meaningful looks when the two of them were fighting what looked like an unspoken battle of wills. No, Sam was okay with Dean looking at him like he was and always would be ten, if the only other alternative was the way he looked at Cas.

So, whatever it was between them - a bond, a connection, an alliance… one thing was for sure. Dean needed Cas. He trusted him, he relied on him. Cas was a vital part of Dean’s life and Sam had long-since wondered if part of Dean’s image of his own self worth was somehow tied up in his dependency on Cas. When Cas was gone, Dean was distracted, closer to that broken wreck he’d been when he’d first come back from Hell. Before Cas rebelled and Lucifer rose. They were never any good when they were at odds. And usually, the whole world suffered because of it.

Sam sighed and tried to block out the persistent pain in his… everywhere. Four hours of sleep would be good for him too, he knew. Then they could get on the road, find Cas, and try to fix the latest clusterfuck.

\--

Dawn crested pink and orange through the mountain pass as Castiel made his way toward or away from something. He had yet to see a single car or person through the night. But the road appeared to be well-worn, so he assumed that someone would pass him eventually.

He found that his feet were sore, and the muscles in his calves and thighs ached from walking. He was thirsty, cold, and so exhausted he could barely keep his eyes open.

He continued to hear his brothers and sisters throughout the night, ringing cries of triumph as they claimed willing vessels or lamenting when they were denied or realized their vessel-bloodline had died out.

He was unsure if it was due to fatigue or proximity, but the longer he walked, the fewer broadcasts he heard. In fact, it had been several hours since he’d last heard a clear voice. Now there was just chatter, the muted flap of wings, and a buzz of static that hummed a nearly universal sense of disorientation.

At first it was so strong, Castiel was certain it’s what made his trek through the woods so perilous last night. He stumbled and fell less often now. Though the dawn and the dirt path also helped.

Although the sun was a welcome reprieve from the frigid mountain air, Castiel was frustrated to find that he had been walking north for some time, rather than east. He’d been following the path, but had missed several opportunities to turn by this point. Also, knowing he was in the Rockies meant he could hike for days along the spine of the mountains and not find another soul. He needed to head east now, toward towns and major roadways and Kansas.

He could either veer right now, into the woods or continue walking north until he found another path that led east. The travel might take longer that way, but almost certainly would be easier than trying to walk through dense forest in the still-relative darkness.

But before he could make a decision, there was an increase in the buzzing in his ears, as if there’d been a spike in angel radio. He couldn't make out individual voices or words. It was just a shift in feelings, a transition from confusion to anger.

The anger was crisp, sharp, like the blade of a knife. Even without intent or words, Castiel knew who their anger was directed towards. He felt the shame of it twist in his stomach.

Unable to block it out or move past it, Castiel stopped walking and squatted on the road. He squeezed his eyes shut and clasped his hands over his ears and sent out a desperate, prayerful plea for peace. He tried to stretch out with his intent, his thoughts, to graze over the other angels’ voices. He tried to pick out just one voice, to hear one coherent thought.

“Please,” Castiel begged. But no one answered. There was no abatement in the jumble of confusion and anger that radiated from his unseen family. “Please.” Castiel knelt on the dirt road, his mortal body sore and fatigued. He found that once he was down, it was impossible to rise. He curled in on himself, too exhausted to think or move.

He would rest. Humans required sleep to function, and he was human now, which meant he was now bound by the same agonizing inefficiencies that he had once found _novel_ about the Winchesters. Castiel drifted to sleep for the first time with the memories of simpler times chasing his sorrows.

\--

Dean woke with a firm hand on his shoulder. Sam was standing over him, saying his name.

“Come on, Dean, time to go,” Sam said and hauled him to his feet.

Dean shook himself, trying to dispel the unease from his dreams. He wasn’t sure what, exactly, he’d been seeing. But he recognized the coiled, tight ball of anxiety in his gut as fear and grief.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed and put his jacket on. The family lounge was empty, and the sun was already up. "What time is it?"

"Seven twenty," Sam answered, checking his watch. "I gave you four hours."

"Thanks," Dean responded quietly. He knew they needed to go, and if Sam was ready to move, he should be too. But he was still so tired, and sore, and hollow.

“We’re going to find him," Sam said as they ducked out of a side door into the parking lot, seemingly in answer to some unvoiced concern he saw in Dean.

Rather than playing dumb or shrugging it off, all Dean could manage was to ask, “How do you even know he’s alive?” He didn't want to depend on Sam for help with this. But the darkness of his own heart, the empty prayers and raining fire had unnerved him more than he wanted to admit.

“Because,” Sam said pointedly, “I have _faith_.”

\--

Dean climbed into the driver's seat leaving Sam to fold his long limbs into the passenger side.

"Oi!" A muffled shout came from the trunk as Sam shut his door. He whipped his head around and then back to Dean.

"What the hell was that?" Sam asked, but the sinking feeling in his gut made him think he already knew the answer.

"Crowley," Dean smirked.

"You put the King of Hell in our trunk? And then left him there all night?" Dean nodded, and Sam couldn't help but smile. Only Dean would be dumb enough to piss off a guy who could snap them into oblivion. “Did you at least give him some air holes?”

“Knew I forgot something,” Dean responded. But when he turned to smile at him, Sam could tell it was just on the surface. It was the same smile Dean used when he was a mess inside but trying to hold everyone else together.

“So, what’s the plan now?” Sam asked as Dean put the keys in the ignition, his hands pausing before starting the Impala.

“Head west. We got a long drive.”

“It’s about bloody time, can we please get a move on?” Crowley called from the trunk and Dean grunted as he turned the engine over. The familiar rumble of the Impala immediately put Sam more at ease. They’d spent so many years in this car. They’d crisscrossed the country more times than he could count. Saving people. Hunting things. The family business.

It wasn’t long before Sam nodded off, the rumble of the engine and headlights eating up asphalt, Dean’s steady hand on the wheel.

This was the closest Sam ever came to home.

\--

Crowley was going to kill them.

That’s all there was to it. Not that it was much of a revelation, because the Winchesters had been on his hit-list for a long time now, but thinking about choking the life out of that arrogant prick Dean Winchester gave Crowley _some_ satisfaction.

Because he sure as hell wasn’t getting it tied up in the back of this damn phallic symbol on wheels. He could feel the ache in his wrists as his restraints rubbed his skin raw, could feel his bones creak in protest as he tried to move against the confined space he’d been given. He let out a muffled groan every time they drove over a bump in the road - for fuck’s sake, _he_ could drive better than the squirrel - and he glared daggers at the underside of the trunk lid, imagining it opening just to allow him one good punch to their disturbingly pretty faces.

And his throat was absolutely parched. He felt like he could consume an entire river and still never have enough. The idea of food wasn’t so bad either. He licked his lips as he imagined it. He felt hollow, empty, physically drained from the ordeal of the trial, more vulnerable than he was comfortable admitting, even to himself.

Crowley wasn’t used to the sensations of pain, or hunger, or regret.

Or needing to urinate. Sweet blasphemous Jesus, this truly was torture.

Searching for a position that would lend him some comfort, Crowley wiggled around aimlessly, occasionally bumping his head against the trunk. Bastards.

It was then that he noticed it.

Right in front of him, Crowley noticed that his fingers were touching just outside of his devil’s trap, barely a centimeter of skin, but beyond the bounds no less.

Well, then, wasn’t that interesting.

Crowley smirked, a swell of triumph rising in his chest. So, the great Dean Winchester had mucked up a devil’s trap because he was so busy worrying about his giant baby of a brother. How sweet.

A chuckle bubbled up from Crowley’s throat, and the urge to mock Dean for his blunder almost overwhelmed him. The insult rose to his lips, almost touching air before he stopped himself.

Maybe it was the lack of oxygen in here (because apparently he had to think about that now, _along_ with still needing to urinate - life was hard), but he couldn’t afford for his brain to short-circuit. If he alerted the moose and squirrel to having made a faulty devil’s trap, then that would be the end of his chances at escaping.

And he sure as hell wasn’t giving that up. All he had to do was bide his time, and wait.

This was going to be a long drive.

\--

Sam woke up to the shrill sound of a phone ringing in the early afternoon, judging by the harsh angle of the sun.

“Hello?” Dean answered immediately. Sam held his breath.

“Kevin, man. Where’ve you been?” They both let out a breath they’d been holding. Sam knew Dean was hoping it would be Cas but Kevin was a close second, he was sure.

“Hold on. The bunker did what? Lockdown?” Dean asked and Sam huffed before he reached over and snatched the phone from Dean’s hands.

“Tell me what happened,” Sam said.

“Last night, all the lights in the bunker went out,” Kevin explained, not wasting any time with pleasantries. Sam didn’t miss the note of weariness in his voice. “All the doors were locked too, and I couldn’t reach you guys by phone - it was like the entire place went into lockdown. The doors didn’t open back up until this morning and I could finally put a call through.”

Sam raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “You’ve been locked inside since last night?”

“What is it?” Dean asked from beside him, impatient. Sam waved a hand at him to signal him to be quiet.

“Yeah,” Kevin said. “I don’t know what happened. I saw this map inside the bunker that lit up with a bunch of locations on it.” Sam couldn’t see Kevin’s face, but he could hear the confusion in his voice as clear as day. “Sam, what’s going on?”

Sam wanted to ask him more about the map, about what locations lit up, what it could all mean, but there was no time to waste. They needed to get back - everything else could come later. Sam, thinking about Crowley in the trunk dropped his voice. “Listen Kevin, there’s no time to explain everything right now, but the light you saw were the angels falling.” He raised his voice back to a normal volume. “We’re headed back to the bunker now, so we’ll be there around eleven tonight, okay? Hang tight until we get there.”

Sam hung up and looked over at Dean’s questioning stare, expression tight. “Seems like the Men of Letters thought of everything.”

\--

The sun was long past its zenith by the time Castiel stumbled onto a black river of asphalt. His mouth was parched, his lips chapped, and his strength all but gone.

He woke sometime mid-morning, still just as tired and sore as when he'd stopped to rest. He made the decision to turn right and take his chances with the valleys and peaks that lay to the east, without a trail to follow. It was difficult, but eventually the trees ended, the elevation leveled out, and he could hear the unmistakable sound of vehicles.

Unfortunately, no one had come to his aid as of yet. He traveled north now, along the interstate. He would come to an exit or rest stop at some point. And when he did, he would call Dean.

Another car passed him, and Castiel coughed as a dark plume of exhaust engulfed him.

At almost the same time as he doubled over and shut his eyes, there was a shift in the angel frequency. What before was once the indecipherable rumble of fear and chaos began a drumbeat of righteous anger. Something had changed, again. Unlike earlier this morning when the anger he’d felt was an abstract thing, this time it was tangible. Because above the cacophony of voices all speaking at once, one voice rang out loud and clear.

One of his brothers had just taken a vessel. ‘Where is the usurper, Castiel?’

‘He’s hidden himself,’ came a reply from one of his sisters.

‘No doubt he’s taken refuge with those humans he’s so fond of.’

‘Find the Winchesters,’ his brother ordered.

‘Leave the humans be, Bartholomew. We should assist those in need of vessels.’

‘Who are you to give me orders?’

‘I am Ezekiel, the Ophanim. Who are you to question me?’

‘I follow the teachings of Naomi, I seek retribution against our traitorous brother Castiel.’

‘Easy, brother. Let us first look to those of us still in need before we--’

The conversation of his brothers was cut short by the blare of a horn and the squeal of tires. Castiel turned just in time to see a truck headed straight for him. He leapt to the shoulder of the road at once, but the truck grazed his foot, sending him into a spin that left him face-down in the dirt and gravel of the roadside.

“Are you crazy?” the large man behind the wheel bellowed as he came to a stop and got out.

Castiel held his bloody hand, the chatter of the angels and the angry shouts of the driver drowned out by the acute pain experienced in his palm. Gravel was imbedded in his skin, sticky with blood, and where some of his skin had torn away, blood blossomed up and Castiel was struck with the sensation of burning. “It hurts,” he observed as he looked to the driver, who stood at the edge of the road. A peculiar look resided on his face, a look that Castiel often saw Dean wear.

“You gotta be more careful, son,” the man said, and Castiel felt the urge to correct him on the proper hierarchy of age between them. However, he stopped himself before he spoke. He imagined what Dean would do in this situation, and found himself recalling the incident with Raphael's vessel years ago when Dean had taught him to lie.

The experience had taught him more about Dean at the time. But now, now that Castiel was human, he grasped to the tendrils of Dean’s lessons with fervor. Because even though he had lived on earth for nearly 2000 years, it wasn’t until Dean Winchester and his brother that Castiel even considered the notion of what it meant to be _human_. A concept that he now clung to.

“I apologize,” he answered, raising up and dusting his clothing off with his left hand. He looked down at this hands, head cocked to the side as he considered the disproportionate damage done to his palms. “I appear to be right-handed.”

“Okay… what’s your name, son?”

“Castiel.”

“Castiel?” the driver mimicked, and Castiel was struck with the irrational fear that somehow this man _knew_ he was recently human. He would turn him over to the other angels, and he’d never get a chance to explain to Dean.

“Cas,” he corrected himself. It rolled easily off his tongue. Dean and Sam seemed to prefer the shortened version of his name. But Castiel felt as though the man was still waiting for something. A family name, he realized. It was not customary for humans to have a single name. He thought briefly about using his vessel’s family name, but Jimmy Novak was wanted in Pontiac, Illinois for murder and he assumed the humans had a way of tracking names across states. The same problem would be true for ‘Winchester,’ so finally Castiel blurted out the only other family name he could recall. “Cas Singer.”

“Cas Singer. Nice to meet you. Can I give you a lift into town?” This man was kind, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners; the deep-set crow-eyes made him appear older. His gruff tone also reminded Castiel of Bobby.

His throat suddenly constricted and there was a stinging in his nose and behind his eyes that he couldn’t even begin to fathom of what it could mean. “Yes, I would appreciate that. I need to call a friend.”

“No cell reception up here. I’ll take you to town, I’m sure you can call from there.” The man gestured towards the trunk, and Castiel followed by getting in the passenger side. Using doors was a new experience, and it was maddening how _slow_ humanity was.

It was a wonder they ever got anything done. Less than a hundred years to live, and they spent most of it in repose, eating, driving, walking. What pitiful percentage of a human life was actually spent living, he supposed he would find out soon.

\--

When they were still six hours outside Lebanon, Dean’s cell rang again.

Dean looked at the screen and saw the unfamiliar Colorado number. He held his breath and hit ‘Answer’. “Hello?”

“Dean.”

“Cas?! Where the hell have you been?” he nearly shouted and felt Sam's eyes on him. But he couldn't stop the wave of relief he felt. It was a physical thing, the reassurance of finally hearing Cas’ voice. There was a constricting pain in his chest and he held the steering wheel so tightly he could hear the leather twist and creak under the pressure of his grip.

“I’m sorry, Dean.”

“I prayed to you, Cas. All night. Why didn’t you answer?”

“Metatron, he tricked me. It wasn’t a trial to close the gates of Heaven. It was a spell to cast the angels out.” Cas’ voice was tunneled, distant through the line, but Dean was sure he could hear exhaustion.

“Yeah, we saw. Where did you fall?” Something about the words being spoken out loud, the acknowledgement that Cas had fallen and burned, lost his wings and hit the earth made Dean feel like pulling over.

“The last piece of the spell--” Cas’ voice was thick as he broke off. “It was my grace. Metatron took my grace.”

“No. No way. You can’t just steal an angel's grace, can you?" Dean turned to Sam, only to find himself already under careful scrutiny.

“Apparently, you can.”

“What does that mean though?” Dean asked again and he could feel Sam’s eyes on him.

“I’m human now,” Cas answered.

“Human? Like ordinary, just human, human? But --”

“I assure you, Dean,” Cas cut him off, “I am human. I can still hear angel radio, but in all other ways, I am just like you and Sam now.”

Now, Dean did pull over and rolled to a stop before he turned the engine off. He couldn't drive and think right now. Metatron had tricked them, all of them. It was his fault Sam almost died, Kevin almost died. Even Naomi had warned them against him. And they were the ones responsible. They found him, after all these years, told him about the world and asked him to get off his angel ass.

Dean could feel the anger heating his blood. Like a fire that raged in his veins, threatening to bubble over. And goddamn Cas was stupid enough to let it happen. And now he was human, and fucking powerless. All because he had to help, all because he felt _guilty_.

"Fuck," Dean grunted and shoved the phone into Sam's hand. "You deal with this."

He knew it was a shit move, asking Sam to stick his neck out between he and Cas. But he was so fucking tired of this bullshit. Sick of Cas and his constant screw ups. Sick of monsters and demons and angels. He was sick of cleaning up everyone else's messes. And God help him if Cas didn't invariably make the wrong decisions for the right reasons. He always wanted to do good, but it just ended up causing more problems.

Dean got out of the car and walked a few yards away before he felt like he could breathe properly again.

He'd been so sure he was dead. But now that he wasn't, that he was human, the black, sparkless image of his unanswered prayers stung even more. He'd called to him, said his name into the cold New York night air, and there was just nothing. No link, no connection, not a goddamn thing. Cas was just another human, no different than Jimmy Novak.

“He’s alive,” Sam said, bringing Dean’s phone back to him.

“He can’t be human,” Dean spoke quietly, thinking back to Anna and how she was born when she ripped out her grace. It didn’t make sense that Cas was just human. What about his vessel, what about Jimmy? What about a comet blazing for nine months and being born and fuck this shit. He hated angel mythology. None of this even came close to making sense.

“So what? He’s not useful anymore?” Sam raised his voice and flung Dean’s cell at his chest. Dean caught it on reflex, but he felt like he’d been punched in the gut.

“What?”

“Just because he lost his mojo doesn’t mean we should just write him off.” And Sam was making one of those rare, spectacular bitch-faces that made Dean think he might actually slap him.

“Jesus. No. You think that’s it? You think--” Dean broke off abruptly as he eyed the car. He dropped his voice. “You think I give a shit about his mojo?”

“Well, what the hell then, Dean?”

“I’m just trying to understand what happened, man. When it comes to angels we’re so out of our depth. Five minutes ago I thought Cas was dead, and now I find out he’s, what, just walking around in his meatsuit but he’s not an angel? How does any of that make sense? What about Anna? When she fell, she was born human, she didn't just spontaneously become human! And what the fuck do flaming meteor-angels mean? Are they human too?” His voice had risen again to the point that he was almost yelling. At this point, though, he didn’t even care. He constantly felt like he was playing catch-up with angels; just when he thought he understood something about how they worked, things changed. And he was sick of it, sick of being in the dark, of guessing.

“Woah, take it easy, Dean.”

“I just want some goddamn direction! For once!” Sam didn’t say anything and Dean realized it was probably because he was waiting for him to get his shit under control. “I’m sorry, Sammy. I didn’t--”

“No, it’s okay,” Sam jumped in before he could even finish his apology. “I get it, I do. It just seemed like you were… doesn’t matter,” Sam said shaking his head but Dean knew what he meant.

“So, he’s alive? Is he… alright?” Dean finally asked, crossing his arms.

“Yeah, he’s in Colorado. I told him we’d send someone to get him. He said some of the angels are looking for him, and they might be coming for us.”

“Oh, there’s a surprise, angels being dicks,” Dean muttered.

“Yeah, well, I told him to stay put, and someone would be there tonight. Meanwhile we need to get back to the bunker and angel-proof it.”

“Should I call Kevin?” Dean asked and Sam shook his head.

“I was thinking we could ask Charlie. She’s still in the area, it wouldn’t take her too long. I don’t think Kevin’s in any shape to drive sixteen hours.”

Dean nodded. “Yeah, okay.” But he didn’t feel okay. “I’m just gonna…” He sort of gestured to his phone and Sam nodded before he went back to the car. Dean called back the last incoming number and waited while it rang four or five times before a woman picked up.

“Hello?”

“Ah, hi. I’m looking for Cas?”

“The tall guy in the trench coat?”

“Yeah,” Dean nodded, though hearing anyone refer to Cas as ‘tall’ was a little strange. He supposed on his own - not standing next to Sam and himself - compared to most other people, he _was_ kind of tall.

‘Hey, Cas? Your, uh, _friend_ wants to talk to you. Here,’ he heard the woman say, followed by ruffling noises of the phone passing hands.

“Sam?”

“You’re okay?” Dean asked, gruff and embarrassed with how he’d handled their conversation before.

“Yes. Just… drained,” he said carefully.

“Listen to me. You’re human now, right? That means you bleed and you eat and you sleep and all the things you never had to worry about before. You have to take care of yourself now. So you lie, you steal, you do whatever you have to do to make sure you stay safe. If angels are after you, you need to get gone. We’re sending someone, but it’ll be a little while, okay? In the meantime, you lay low. You rest, you eat, and you don’t talk to anyone, you hear me?”

“Not all the angels are looking for me, some are trying to help the others locate vessels. I can help--”

“Damnit, Cas, just listen to me for once! Helping angels is what got you into this mess in the first place. So please, for once, for me, just look out for yourself. We’ll get back to the bunker and then we can talk about the other angels, okay?” Dean knew he sounded desperate, but he honestly didn’t care.

“Okay. For you, I will listen. How should I acquire currency?”

“The lady with the phone, is she young?”

“Yes, she appears--”

“Shhhh, don’t look at her.”

“How did you know I was--”

“Because I know, okay. Just don’t let her know we’re talking about her. Look, if she’s young that means she’s attracted to you.”

“How could you possibly--”

“Shut up, Seth.”

“Who’s Seth?”

“No one, never mind. Just listen to me. I’m an expert human, okay? And my specialty is women. If she’s young, she’s into you. You can use that. Tell her you got mugged and they took your wallet. Tell her a friend is picking you up later, but ask her if she’ll buy you some lunch in the meantime. I promise it’ll work.” Dean smiled to himself. He really was an expert. With Cas’ blue eyes and that sob story, there’s no way she could refuse him.

“That seems… underhanded.”

“Don’t look,” Dean seethed. He could just _tell_ Cas was looking. Those sad-puppy eyes, thinking about taking advantage of this woman.

“How do you--”

“Expert. I told you. And you promised you’d listen to me, so… listen. Do what I tell you, and you’ll be back at the bunker this time tomorrow.” Dean could hear Cas heave a sigh of relief at the thought and his heart tightened in his chest. “Remember to keep steady eye contact when you lie. That’s key. Oh, and one last thing, Cas. And this is important.”

“Yes, Dean. Anything.”

“If she asks if I’m your boyfriend, you say ‘no,’ okay?”

**Author's Note:**

> Joint Fic written by [Thalia](http://caughtinholyfire.tumblr.com) & [Melanie](http://melly2shoes.tumblr.com). You can message us on [Tumblr](http://luxuriantsongstress.tumblr.com) or at [The Infallibility of Grace tumblr](http://theinfallibilityofgrace.tumblr.com)


End file.
